The Pearl in the Ice

And as she became the sea, she could feel the currents, the tides, the movement of the waves, all as one powerful dance within her. Another wave moved away from her, so high that it blocked out the dreadnoughts, higher and more solid than any steel hull. And the wind – she could feel the wind stirring in answer to the waves . . . And the clouds came chasing towards her, a shadow sea in the sky, black and swollen with freezing rain that would fall heavy and sharp as nails. She could breathe in and feel a wave rising from the very depths of the ocean. The further it had to climb, the more powerful it would be. And then she realized that it was her breath that was moving these waves. She could summon one from the depths by breathing in, making it rise up and up in front of her. She could hold her breath, with that majestic mountain of black water in front of her, and then, breathing out, she could send it racing towards those wretched Mordavian warships – which looked as terrifying now as a child’s toy on a boating lake . . .

‘Marina! Inside!’ Her father, dragging her away from the prow. ‘It’s a storm!’

Surprised, she saw now how the waves lashed the deck of the boat, how the rain hurled itself from the clouds, puncturing the surface of the sea. The wind took her breath away. She was no longer the sea, she was just a small, fragile twelve-year-old at the mercy of a sudden, violent gale. Her father put his arm around her and they struggled towards the mess.

All the crew were gathered there, apart from the Chief Engineer and his Mate, whose job it was to somehow keep the Sea Witch’s engine moving in the hope they could outrun the storm.

‘Why did I get no warning of this?’ Commander Denham wiped the rain from his face.

‘There was no warning, sir,’ Jones answered, his face pale and his hair plastered to his head. Even the short step from the Signals Room to the mess had drenched him. ‘The forecast was for minimal swell and good visibility.’

‘Well, the storm’s here now,’ Brown said. He held a metal bowl close to his chest – even the most able of seamen could get sick in a storm.

Perkins muttered something under his breath.

‘Cut yer wittering on,’ Brown groaned. ‘I can do without your nonsense.’

‘But don’t you see?’ Perkins stared out at the rain battering the porthole and the mountainous waves that threatened to topple on to the boat. ‘This storm came from nowhere. Nowhere! I tell you, it’s a witch storm. It’s been whistled up to drown us all!’

‘I’ll whistle up my fists if you don’t shut it,’ Brown mumbled.

‘That’s enough,’ Commander Denham ordered. ‘There’s no need for such foolishness. When we face these dangers, we behave like sailors, like navy men. There’s no room for superstition on this boat. We will proceed as we would in any difficult situation. All men present? Call out your names.’

The men gave their names in order of rank.

The wind screamed and the waves rose higher. The Sea Witch was spun round, upended, tossed about like a ball. And then the engines went silent. With no power, the boat would have no chance of outrunning the storm.

‘The dogs. My dogs!’ Marina tried to struggle free. ‘They’ll be so frightened.’

Trenchard, who had been staring morosely into nothingness, lumbered to his feet. He was almost flung against the wall for his trouble. ‘The dogs have had it. And so have we. Unless I can get down to the engine room to help the Engineer. If we can’t get the engines started . . .’

Before anyone could stop him, Trenchard lunged for the door. ‘I’d rather be swept off deck trying to do something useful than sit here like a sardine in a tin!’

Seconds later, the door blew open again to reveal Trenchard, battling to stay upright as a torrent of water rushed over the deck. A wave reared up and swept across him. He was knocked sideways, his arm twisted at a ghastly angle, although he managed to keep himself from the clutches of the sea.

The Sea Witch climbed the side of another wave. Trenchard, drenched and clutching his twisted arm, launched himself across the deck. Another wave teetered above him, like a vast tower about to fall. And then it crashed down on top of him.

The next wave rose, and, terrifying, a black shape rose within it – some ancient, murderous sea creature which had risen from the depths, drawn by the taste for a mortal’s flesh.

The door swung shut. Marina sobbed, burying her face in her father’s thick sweater. ‘It’s my fault. I did this. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to.’ She had summoned those waves, but had not thought how she could stop them.

He stroked her hair. ‘Not your fault, not your fault,’ he repeated. His chest rose and fell, like a wave on a calm sea, and the movement comforted her. ‘No man is a match for the sea . . .’

The boat tipped to one side and the men groaned in unison. Jones’s lips moved soundlessly, perhaps in some sort of prayer. But Marina, her body lurching from side to side, felt peaceful; there was no need to cry out.

‘You can have me,’ she whispered to the sea. ‘I won’t fight.’

22

Hours later, shivering with cold, their nerves shredded, the crew of the Sea Witch stumbled out of the mess and on to the deck. After the screaming symphony of the storm, the silence that greeted them was eerie, as if the world had been washed clean of sound. The waves, which hours before had been as tall and impenetrable as mountains, had disappeared: the sea was flat and black, like polished basalt. The sky had changed too: the Arctic days were being cut short by the sun which would no longer rise above the horizon. The Arctic night would